


river still writhing, river still turning

by couldaughter



Category: Doctor Who & Related Fandoms, Doctor Who (1963)
Genre: F/M, Letting Barbara And Ian Process Some Stuff For Once, One Shot, POV Female Character, Pre-Relationship, Serial: s005 The Keys of Marinus
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-19
Updated: 2020-12-19
Packaged: 2021-03-10 16:40:56
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,634
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28170312
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/couldaughter/pseuds/couldaughter
Summary: “Oh,” he said. “I’m alright, Barbara. Don’t worry about me.”Typical man, thought Barbara, with only a hint of frustration. “I rather think I can worry about whatever I like,” she said. “Haven’t you ever heard of female emancipation?”
Relationships: Ian Chesterton/Barbara Wright
Comments: 4
Kudos: 13





	river still writhing, river still turning

**Author's Note:**

> so i have got back into classic who BIG TIME recently and consequentially fallen back down the barbara/ian rabbit hole, which in actual terms basically means reading all the limited fic for them and then getting big into the expanded universe. the standard plot for them in the eu is this: ian and barbara are in love, ian gets kidnapped or injured, ian almost dies, ian and barbara reunite, they never talk about it. extremely similar to their classic who tenure!
> 
> this time they talk about it! i watched keys of marinus for the first time and while it is not, shall we say, "good", i was VERY struck by the whole "ian gets framed for murder and is literally minutes away from being executed" thing, as well as "barbara is almost assaulted while ian is sent out to "rescue susan" (get eaten by wolves)". doctor who, who hurt you?

Sound never carried in the corridors of the TARDIS. Footsteps were oddly muffled and voices didn’t echo, even when Susan was listening to the radio or the Doctor was singing to himself, a wavering baritone. 

Barbara didn’t like it. It was the dead of night, or at least she supposed it must be, and she wanted to be able to hear whoever might be out and about before they could surprise her in the dark. She’d never been quite so easily startled, once upon a time, but now after the Daleks and the Voords it was difficult not to be. She shivered, pulled her dressing gown tighter around her stomach, and pressed on.

There was a library she was aiming for as she walked quietly through the ship, one she’d glimpsed through an archway a few weeks before. She had a vaguely formed idea of finding a book about Queen Anne, a subject she’d studied a little at university, and spending a few hours reading in what passed for peace and quiet. Despite the dampening effect the ship managed for any sound _she_ made, the constant hum of the engines still grated at her nerves from time to time.

After a few minutes of fruitless searching she stumbled across a library which was almost certainly _not_ the one she’d seen before, the shelves differently arranged and the chairs significantly less antique. Switching on one of the standard lamps, Barbara was halfway to the shelf on the Glorious Revolution when she realised she wasn’t alone in the room.

Ian was sitting in an overstuffed armchair in the corner, books — open and face down, spine-cracking — littered across the floor and a heavy blanket wrapped around his shoulders. He didn’t seem to have noticed Barbara’s presence, eyes deliberately focused on the only book that had passed whatever arbitrary standard he’d set for the evening. He looked tired, spine bent, his face pale. His hair was an utter mess — not for the first time, her fingers itched to tidy it a little.

She chewed at her lip for a moment, unsure whether to interrupt. Her fingertips brushed against the spine of a heavy tome, titled in an alphabet Barbara couldn’t even begin to puzzle out, and before she could quite understand what was happening it started to sing.

Ian jumped, his chosen book falling to the floor with a resounding thump. Barbara felt her heart beat faster, even as the music spilled out into the room, soft and sweet.

“Oh, Barbara,” said Ian, with a weak chuckle. “Terribly sorry. I didn’t hear you come in.” He drummed the fingers of one hand against the armrest.

Barbara smiled, despite herself. Ian was, among other things, a wonderful friend, a dreadful dancer, and most likely the love of her life, but he was quite definitely not a good liar. His eyes always told her everything.

“I couldn’t sleep,” she replied, after a moment. “Thought I might find something to read.” The music was tapering off, now, soft murmuring words at the edge of her hearing.

“Are you alright?” Ian asked, instantly alert. “I — Barbara, you know you can always talk to me, about… things?” He was painfully earnest, disarming and disarmed in his flannel pyjamas and dressing gown, and Barbara loved him terribly. She’d almost lost him.

That was the core of it, really. Their quest for the Keys, futile in the end, had been so close to being fatal. They’d taken him away after the trial, and she and Susan had been minutes away from failure. Too late to stop whatever method of execution such an _enlightened_ people might prefer.

Barbara had never understood the public fascination with hangings. The Bentley case had exploded in the press around the time she took her school cert; it had put her off the idea of death as justice entirely.

She certainly couldn’t understand it now, with Ian shivering slightly in the armchair and half-remembered dreams still flitting across her vision. When she awoke, gasping, she’d been quite convinced he was dead, and she would be trapped in that cabin for the rest of her life.

“I know,” she said, and moved towards him, with no fixed idea of if she would sit in the other chair or simply put herself in his lap. She thought they both rather needed some close contact.

Ian gazed up at her when she reached him, still wavering. She swallowed, feeling unmoored, and brushed her fingers against his hand. His skin was warm and rough, likely not helped by years of chemical exposure in high school labs across London. He twitched, a motion that travelled all the way up to his shoulders.

“Same to you, of course,” she said, still standing. He blinked up at her, clearly confused, before his face cleared.

“Oh,” he said. “I’m alright, Barbara. Don’t worry about me.”

_Typical man_ , thought Barbara, with only a hint of frustration. “I rather think I can worry about whatever I like,” she said. “Haven’t you ever heard of female emancipation?”

Ian looked appropriately chastened. “I walked right into that one, I suppose.” He swallowed, and grabbed Barbara’s hand where it had stilled above his own. “If you must worry — I couldn’t sleep either.”

He looked wretched saying it, of course. Barbara gave up on propriety and sat on the floor beside him, hands still clasped, and leaned back until she could look up at him comfortably. 

“Bad dreams?” She asked, already sure of the answer.

Ian nodded, after a moment. His mouth twisted, like he was trying hard to keep words from spilling out.

Barbara squeezed his hand. “Me too,” she said. “Some of the things we’ve seen, the things we’ve done — I think they’ll stick with me forever.”

There was no immediate reply to that. Barbara watched as Ian thought very hard about admitting something personal, a familiar wrinkle between his eyes.

“I thought I was going to die,” he said quietly. “Not the first time, I had a nasty scrape in Malaysia, but — this was worse, somehow.”

“The waiting, I should think,” Barbara said, equally quiet. “Does something awful to the nerves.”

Ian winced. “Yes, that was… part of it.” He looked down at their joined hands. “It gives one a lot of time to think. Reflect on… things.”

“Oh, _things_ ,” said Barbara, tone deliberately light. “I hear you know a lot about _things._ ”

With a huff, Ian smiled. It was small and a little strained, but clearly there. “You will insist on teasing me, Miss Wright.”

Barbara smiled back. “Only so much as you deserve it, Mr Chesterton.”

They fell into silence after that. Barbara propped one of Ian’s discarded books open with her free hand and absorbed herself in a passage about the Neo-Iceni of the 25th century. There’d been something of a revival for Celtic culture after the advent of psychic archeology, which sounded a bit too much like leylines and crystals for Barbara to put much stock in it. Nevertheless, the exploits of Boudicea IV and her endless array of consorts were absorbing enough. The chapter on the reconstruction of the Celtic language from psychic communion with the stones of Hadrian’s wall, however, was somewhat beyond Barbara’s capabilities in the middle of the night. 

“Do you know,” Ian offered into the still air. “I think there might just be room for two on this chair. If you don’t mind a bit of a squeeze.” He was very determinedly _not_ looking at her, gaze fixed on the hanging clock on the wall. This one, at least, had numbers on its face.

“Worth a try,” said Barbara. She could always return to the ballad of Boudicea’s revenge on the Cybermen, whatever those were, another night.

She pushed herself to her feet, wobbling a little, as Ian shuffled across. There was, indeed, a sliver of cushion visible beside him, into which she duly squeezed. Ian’s side pressed against her, warm and solid, as he enfolded her into the blanket he’d been clutching. His arm came to rest around her waist, warm through the thin flannel of her nightgown. Slowly, she let her head drop until it was resting quite snugly on Ian’s shoulder.

“Much better,” she murmured. Ian hummed in agreement.

This was a position they’d found themselves in quite often, since they’d first stepped onto the TARDIS and been whisked away into the wilderness of infinite time and infinite space. Before all this they’d been friends, certainly, after they’d met up at the Aldermaston marches, but it had been a friendship with all the careful distance required to avoid the kind of gossip that might lead to Barbara’s dismissal. She’d been fond of him, with his slouchy cardigans and old school tie, but had never expected to find herself unable to imagine life without him.

She knew he felt the same way. It was difficult not to, considering the number of times he’d thrown himself in harm’s way for her.

It was going to be awkward if they got home. _When_ they got home.

“I’m sorry,” Ian said, quietly. “I think I made rather a mess of things.”

Typical Ian. Always taking the blame.

“You’re already forgiven,” she replied. “Even when you were being an idiot, it was for the right reasons. Same as always.”

Ian huffed. “Still.”

“We’ve all mucked up one thing or another,” said Barbara. “The important thing is to keep trying to do good. It’ll balance out in the end.”

She’d never been much for philosophy; too much chauvinism packaged up with the greats. The importance of optimism, however, was something she would always defend.

Her eyelids grew heavy. Ian rested his chin atop her head at just the right angle to press a gentle kiss against her scalp. She smiled, and let her eyes slip closed.

**Author's Note:**

> notes:  
> \- according to a couple of different pieces of the eu, ian did national service in malaysia (i have read one of these pieces of the eu, but it was literally ten years ago, so i don't remember it very clearly) (does fit into the throwing himself in harm's way for barbara mold though!)  
> \- one of the big finish audios establishes that ian and barbara became friends when they were both in the aldermaston marches, which were part of the campaign for nuclear disarmament  
> \- all the stuff about the neo-iceni is bullshit i made up, because i can. this is, i imagine, exactly how the authors of big finish short trips felt
> 
> catch me on twitter/tumblr @dotsayers! i'm about to start a doctor who podcast with a friend as well, if anyone likes this enough to wonder what i thought about *checks notes* the keeper of traken.
> 
> title from the malaya emergency by simon armitage


End file.
